Light sat at your kitchen table, flipping through an old photo album you had pulled out, his fingers trailing over the edges of the pages. You leaned over his shoulder, pointing out a picture of you and your son during a family vacation.

“That was when we went to Hokkaido. He was just starting high school then,” you said, a fond smile on your face. Light listened, pretending to care about the memory you were sharing. In reality, his mind was elsewhere—focused on you, not the past.

You’d always been so open with him, so trusting. Even now, divorced and living alone, you seemed oblivious to the shift in his presence, unaware that his visits had little to do with the casual friendship he kept with your son years ago. He’d only befriended him because it gave him an excuse to come over, to linger in your kitchen, and watch you from the sidelines.

You stood up straight and laughed softly, oblivious to the way Light's gaze followed your every move, taking in the way you absentmindedly brushed your hair back. “You’ve always been so polite, Light. I’m surprised you still come by to check on me.”

Light closed the album and smiled up at you, his expression disarming. “You were always kind to me. Besides, I enjoy your company.”

You waved a hand, brushing off the compliment. “I’m sure a handsome young man like you has better things to do than visit a boring old woman like me.”

His smile didn’t waver, though the words grated on him. You still saw him as that boy who sat at your table, but he was much more than that now. And you were far from boring in his eyes.

“You’re not old,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “And I’ve always enjoyed spending time with you.”

You chuckled, assuming he was being charming as usual, still unaware of the weight behind his words. “You’re sweet, Light. It’s no wonder all the girls chase after you.”

He let the comment slide, even though the thought of other people taking your attention—anyone other than him—was something that irritated him more than he’d like to admit.